Workout

I've talked about poop (or what leads to it or doesn't) a lot here already, and I'm going to again. But this time it's not my poop. It's probably Hoover's. He, at least, was the one who brought it to my attention.

I was in our bedroom, putting away clothes from the clothes stand at the end of the bed (before it crashes through the floor and into the crawl space through the sheer weight of our laziness), I had just opened Ian's window for some air, Hoover came in, and I started to smell dog shit. I was up by the head of my side of the bed—not a place you want a dog shit smell, and I started talking to Hoover. "Did you just go outside Daddy's window?" I asked. "This sure is stinky!" Hoover wandered away, clack clack clack on the floor, and I suddenly saw it—a shitty paw print.

Now, if this had been Spackle, the problem would've been minimal. Unless he's actively on a walk, fetching, or greeting visitors, Spackle sleeps. When he comes inside, he goes straight to his bed in the living room. Yes, there would've been shitty paw prints on the floor, but in a beeline from the door to the bed. Hoover, on the other hand, doesn't sleep—doesn't even lie down—if he can possibly be wandering around the house instead. So the one room he didn't, in fact, visit with his shit foot was my office (thank goodness). But he did meander through the kitchen and in and out both doors, into the dining room and living room, the bathroom, the spare room, and our bedroom.

I shooed him outside, grabbed our spray bottle of organic pet cleaner and some recycled paper towels, and proceeded to clean most of our floors on my hands and knees. By the end, I was sweating. Cinderella came to mind.